


Luna Francesca Arnatha Jones: Rise of the Night of the Summer of the Dream Wolf Ghost at Elm Creek Manor

by marginaliana



Category: Hidden Object Games
Genre: Crows & Ravens, Gen, POV Second Person, crowbar - Freeform, very very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've received a mysterious letter. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luna Francesca Arnatha Jones: Rise of the Night of the Summer of the Dream Wolf Ghost at Elm Creek Manor

You've received a mysterious letter.

Again.

 _My dearest great-granddaughter. As you know, your family has a long history of fighting on the side of light against the forces of darkness. What you may not know is that we were once part of a secret society. Called 'The Nine Unicorns,' our mission was..._

You skim the rest of the letter. Blah blah secret society, blah blah gathering together nine talismans made of white gold to complete a magic ritual, blah blah evil monk, blah blah blah. It's remarkably similar to the last fifteen mysterious letters you've received, save for the matter of the details. You wonder how your parents managed to keep all their secret societies straight. It wouldn't do to turn up at a meeting of the Guild of the Lionheart having brought a magical talisman from an entirely different mythology. You're sure it would have been a terrible faux pas.

At any rate, your great-grandfather wants you to go off to his ancestral home and complete some ritual that the rest of the family had left unfinished. You're beginning to wonder if they'd managed to finish _any_ of the rituals they'd started, or if you've inherited a distinct genetic history of half-assedness.

The one unusual thing about this letter, as opposed to the previous ones, is that your great-grandfather says you'll have to remain 'pure' in order for the ritual to work. You're not entirely sure what he means by that, but you're sure it'll become clear eventually, and so as soon as it gets dark and starts to rain, you set off.

As you drive down the highway towards Elm Creek you pass signs for other towns – Ravenholm, Ravensnest, Ravencroft, Ravensborough, all places you've been, places you've saved from dark curses, quite lovely to visit now, probably, if you weren't on a mission – and then Raven Creek, Owl Creek, Oak Creek, Apple Creek, Maple Creek, getting closer, and you can see a patch of sunlight over each town as you pass, and hear the faint sounds of people being happy in the distance – and then Oak River, Maple River, Appleblossom Dell, Copperton, and you've overshot somehow, so you pull off the road and do a three-pointer and go back the way you came.

You've got your map out of the glovebox and you spread it out across the steering wheel as you drive slowly west again, trying to read the small lettering in the dim light so that you can sort out where the turn-off is. A brief rush of wind makes the edge of the map flip upwards, blocking your view, and you bat it down impatiently – when you can see the road again, there's a man standing in the middle of it, about two feet from your bumper.

You scream. You're not ashamed of it; it's a natural reaction to seeing a ghost, no matter how many of them a person has seen. As the car passes through the body of the man, bits of metal under the hood do things they shouldn't and the car spins sideways. You try to brake, try to steer, then give both of them up as a bad job and put your arms over your face. A moment later the car stops (abruptly) and you're thrown forwards and then back. The airbag goes off.

It takes a few moments for you to come back to yourself, but when you do, you glance over the inside of your car with something closer to resignation than alarm. _Oh, well,_ you think. _It's not as if my insurance premiums can get any higher._

On the plus side, when you climb out of the car you discover that you've found the turn off for Elm Creek. The sign is small and dilapidated and half-hidden behind the bush. The bush that you've crashed into. Actually, it might be more accurate to say that you crashed into the sign, and the bush just cushioned the blow, but you're not inclined to nitpick just now. Instead you gather up your trusty flashlight and turn towards the town. The manor sits at the closest edge, low and hulking. There are no sunny skies here, just dark storm clouds that spit bolts of lightning, swirling heavy and purple-black around a small spot of empty sky, which has itself gone blood red. It looks like a demonic eye, and it's directly above the manor.

Experience has taught you that if it looks like a demonic eye and quacks like a demonic eye, then it's probably a demonic eye. You sigh, heavily, and give a serious moment's consideration to turning back now, walking back down the highway until you hit the edge of Maple Creek and can hitch a ride home. But then you remember your great-grandfather's letter and that, in addition to the genetic history of half-assedness, you've also got a genetic history of fighting evil, and this one you haven't managed to overcome.

Forwards.

\-----

An hour or so later you've broken into the manor, found the library, and read rather a lot of background information. The lock on your great-grandfather's diary was one of those with the red horses and blue horses jumping over each other to trade places, and it took you a while to remember how to make it work. You hate those things. But now you're five pages into the diary and finally beginning to understand what your great-grandfather meant by 'pure.' At some point you'll probably manage to stop blushing. Though it does bring up the question of how your grandmother managed to be _born_ , given your great-grandfather's stringent magical requirements. You decide this is one of those things you're better off not knowing.

Besides the diary there's also some disturbing books about wolves and the full moon, but you can't imagine why your great-grandfather would want to read about that, so you slot them back into their places and move on.

You've acquired some tools – a ladder, two stamps, a wagon wheel, a candy wrapper, a newspaper, three silver statuettes, birdseed, orange juice, a jar of almonds, a mystical teardrop amulet, rubber gloves, a fuse, a valve, a drawer handle, seven pieces of canvas from a shredded painting, a false beard, a piece of cheese, a vial of acid, a fountain pen, and a crowbar. You make a mental note to hang onto the crowbar; it's always annoying to discover that you have to look for a wrench to pull something open when there's a perfectly good crowbar that you set down just a minute ago and can't find again. Things seem to disappear once you've put them down. It's probably a side effect of the whole demonic curse thing.

The newspaper comes in handy at the door to the balcony, which is locked from the outside. You slip the paper underneath, then use the tip of the pen to knock the key out of the lock, then pull the newspaper back again. Easy-peasy. It's amazing how big the gap is between the door and the bottom of its frame – no wonder these old manors are so drafty.

You step out onto the balcony. It's as dilapidated as the rest of the manor, and some of the large grey cobbles have been loosened by strands of ivy growing up underneath and between. It looks as though someone had dumped out a garbage bag to one side here – apple cores, buttons, a toy car, a couple of safety pins chained together, pills, a nutcracker, a bow (the kind you shoot arrows with), a bow (the kind on a present), and a bow (the thing that's used to play a violin). You sift through it all and eventually pick out the safety pins as something that might come in handy.

When you look up from the trash heap something catches your eye, a flutter of something black against the gloom of the day. It's a raven – _Corvus edithae_ , to be specific. You can tell all the different species of raven by sight now, and who knows, you might need that information some day.

It's carrying something, something small and shiny. You lay a bet with yourself as to whether it's a key, a button, or a bas-relief piece in the shape of a mythical animal. Ten bucks says key.

You pull the birdseed from your pocket and open the bag, scattering it across the cobblestones. The raven gives you an approving caw and flies down to peck, casting its burden contemptuously aside. It's a key! Ten bucks! It's... a bas-relief key in the shape of a gryphon.

Might as well call it even.

As you turn back towards the lighted doors of the library a strange foreboding comes over you. Something is about to happen. And then you see it – the shape of a man, just a shadow, outlined on the glass of the window. There's someone in the library. Is it a ghost? Is it the same ghost that had caused your accident, a ghost that that even now was lurking, waiting to do you some unspeakable harm?

The doors from the library are flung open. The figure steps towards you, and you frantically dig in your pockets for the crowbar, which might at least make a decent weapon, but you've just got too much stuff in there and you can't seem to find it. You abandon the idea of the crowbar and dig for the acid instead, or even the orange juice, which ought to keep your assailant occupied long enough for you to get away. But by now it's too late, and the figure steps closer, into the light, revealing himself to be...

Decidedly un-ghostly. In fact, he's a little bit dumpy, actually, and his suit is way too tight. But his face is appropriately eldritch, in that he has thick eyebrows and badly needs a shave.

"I do beg your pardon, madam," he says. "I am Vincenzo, the butler of this manor. I am so glad to have found you, because now I can help you rid this town of its deadly, horrible secret."

He steps closer, right up next to you with one hip cocked sideways, and gives you the kind of smile that makes you decide maybe your great-grandfather was right about the whole purity thing. Totally awesome, purity. In fact, you're going to make it your life's mission.

Vincenzo is saying something about your family and werewolves, but all you can think of is that old well out by the manor's front gates. If you find a bucket, you could pull up some water and wash the smell of creepy butler off you.

Thankfully it doesn't take Vincenzo long to get to the point, and he leaves you with one final piece of advice before going off to tend to his butlering duties: 'Stay out of the basement.' Since you hadn't realized the manor even had a basement, this is not a particularly effective warning.

You stumble out of the library into the hallway and look both directions. Vincenzo is nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of your eye you see something interesting, and bend down to pick it up.

 _Oh!_ you think. _I found a sausage! I might find a use for that later._


End file.
